Perspective
by DealingDearie
Summary: In which each person reflects on what love means to them, goes along with 'A Dilemma of Sorts' (Liz's POV). Feedback is always appreciated.
1. Red

Red couldn't sum up love in a sensation, or a memory, or a specific phrase that was told over and over, but he could point it out in a crowd, or maybe in a ghost's aged face. He could show you pictures, and he could recite certain lectures, and tell you life lessons he himself had been taught, and he could imitate a stance or facial expression in a heartbeat. He could mimic a voice, tell you stories, anything, really, if it concerned a certain Professor Trevor Brutenholm.

To Red, that was love, the man that had been everything; a friend, a teacher, a father.

He had been everything for so very long, and in a single instant he was gone, gone just as if the past 60 years had meant no more than time already passed by. Red can't say that it didn't hurt, or that he didn't feel destroyed, like every part of him had been ripped asunder and stitched back together a thousand times over, and the aching hole such a death left within him never quite healed.

Maybe time passed on, and that's why it got better, or maybe it's because he had friends; good, honest friends.

Friends like Abe, who never said anything with a double meaning, and never understood the joking laughter Red showed him. Abe, who talked with his hands more than his mouth, who beat Red at poker just because Red was "easy to read", who had a way of putting things logically that no one could argue with, his mind a one track course.

And then there were friends like Liz.

Liz, who distanced herself because she thought it would make a difference, who smiled at the ground when she laughed, who didn't pull back when he took her hand. She'd hug him and rub his back like a child, and then she'd slap him-never too hard-if he made her angry, and she was probably the one foundation he had to lean on.

And then she was the air he breathed, the face he couldn't bear to go a day without seeing, the eyes that made his heart pound.

She was everything, and he couldn't imagine her being gone for a single moment.

Because what life would that be, living without the air and sun and clouds and sky and very earth beneath him, living for just a second without any of the vitalities?

It was unimaginable.

**Please R&R! All rights go to their respectful owners. Feedback is always appreciated! ;)**


	2. Abe

Abe doesn't know what love's meant to be like, or how you know it's there, and he doesn't think he'll ever truly figure that out, because love, for all of its mystifying attributes, is not logical.

Abe is logical, his mind only capable of thinking and thinking again, and he's only ever known confusion, and fear, and then perhaps shock, because shock is explicable.

Shock is the spike in your heart rate, the rush of adrenaline in your blood. He can handle all of that-the memory of scientists poking and prodding at him comes to the surface. But he can't handle comfort-the image of Red comes, unbidden, the man tossing scientists about like they weighed nothing, shouting angry profanities as he released Abe from his bonds.

Comfort is an odd sensation, one he can neither truly receive or give, and the memory of the Professor blooms at the forefront of his mind.

The Professor had been kind, gently admonishing Red for destroying the lab, laughing as he patted Abe on the shoulder-Abe remembers how foreign the gesture had been, the unadulterated confusion that had washed over him.

The Professor had been a father, he thinks now; a father and a teacher and a companion that taught him how to function in the world, taught him about privacy and manners and gave him all sorts of books at the revelation that he could read four at a time.

And then there was Red.

Red, who looked him up and down and turned on his heel, mumbling about the exertion of fighting and how that always made him want pancakes, his crimson tail swishing lazily behind him as he walked. The one person who blinked over at him after Abe made an observation about how the light reflected off Manning's head, bursting into loud laughter as Abe looked on quizzically.

He had been so new, then, completely foreign to the world, and the thought of life and love and happiness had never crossed his mind. But now, thinking back, Red had been _good._ He had been a brother and best friend, a protector and advisor when the Professor wasn't there, and then Liz came along.

Liz was a hesitant person, naturally, and so he'd sought to make her laugh, earning a small smile as he blinked down at that infernal Rubik's cube. Humor had been new, then, too.

Abe could reminisce all he wanted, and the end result would be the same. He had found a family, a family in all but blood, and the sensations of comfort and contentment and companionship slowly grew to mean the world to him.

But love, the look in his friends' eyes when they stared at one another, remained illogical, and so Abe ignored it. He didn't think about it, to be honest, and opted for a shrug of the shoulders when Liz laughed as she embraced Red, her dark eyes shining.

But then Nuala put a knife to his throat, and all matters of logicality flew out the window.

He couldn't stand next to her without stuttering, stumbling over his words just as he stumbled over his feet, and all in all, he was a nervous wreck. Trying to talk to her and console her, trying to make her laugh and not knowing how, feeling the all-consuming urge to _care _for her; it was just completely baffling.

And maybe Abe could have figured out why his heart raced, or why his tongue tripped over itself, or why he felt like the sun was shining at his back when she smiled at him, her golden eyes as bright as any sunrise.

Maybe he could have done it, if it hadn't already been too late.

He'd always heard Liz murmur to herself, walking by with her hands stuffed deep into her pockets, her shoulders up close to her head, that you never knew what you had until it was gone.

Abe could see, with his own two eyes, what was in front of him, and yet, his mind couldn't quite process it in time.

And so, holding her to him with all the care he could muster, it had come as quite a shock to feel her grip lose its hold, and to feel her body just _stop_, to feel her just simply _cease to be_, to feel all the love he felt go to such an awful waste, to lose it in an instant; and _oh_, how he lost it.

But that wasn't love, now was it?

Losing was not loving, and Abe still loved with everything he had. He still loved because she wasn't gone, not entirely.

She was the echo of laughter, or the memory lying within a book of poetry, or the imprint of a smile behind his eyelids, as bright as any sunrise.

She followed him wherever he went, and the soft sound of her voice made it all that much easier to bear.

**Please R&R! ;) Feedback is always appreciated. **


	3. Nuala

Nuala cannot remember her mother, cannot recall her low whispers late at night, because her memory doesn't extend to the womb. She could, possibly, count the distant impression of pain, and the slight tremor she'd felt in her mind, the hiss and cry and sigh that had echoed in her head in a moment too early for her to label. She could convince herself that her telepathic abilities had enabled her to feel her mother's mind, even as a baby, but it's quite the ridiculous thought, even for an elf.

And so, her only parent had been a father with grief etched onto his aging face, his heart weary from shielding his daughter from his son. He had been steady, if not completely unbreakable, in her small eyes, a warrior with pride in the twinkle of his golden eyes. But, as she got older, Nuala realized the power of perspective. Balor was weak, and wavering, and tired.

Just tired.

Nuada had always known this, had seen it as a young boy, and his fondness found a way to morph into something completely different. Nuada. Perhaps she should associate his name with hatred, and greed, and the coldest depths of the darkest places, but she can't exactly find the heart to think of him in such a way. Her brother had been the steady one, the boy who never flinched at pain, who smiled when he got into trouble because it was all a big joke for him to enjoy, and one person who knew her heart and its woes and loved her for it.

_Love._

What was love? Was it the shine in his eyes when he glanced at her? Or maybe the way he hugged her, when they were both teenagers, pressing him to her like he could meld their bodies together. Maybe it was the feel of his hands on her hips as they danced, and her insistence at placing his palms flat on her shoulders, even as they slipped back down.

But no, that wasn't love.

Love was the way he smoothed her hair back when she cried, or the way he doctored her scraped knee, even though he had one of his own to tend to. Love was the way he spit his drink out when she made a joke, or the way he dove in after her when she fell into the pond, unable to swim in her layered skirts and suffocating corset.

She never wore one again, after that.

Her brother, for all of his shortcomings, had been _good_, once, and the ghost of it all haunted her still. The idea that he could have been so wonderful, so kind, only to turn into the man she ran from, the person she feared more than anything else, was horrific, and it nearly made Nuala sick with grief. And then her father was gone, murdered by the one man she still loved in that far corner of her heart, and that was the moment Nuala felt truly, heart-achingly hopeless- until Abraham.

Abraham was a bright light in her darkest nightmares, a balm to her grief. He was kind and odd and intriguing, gesturing more with his hands than anyone she'd ever met, blinking at her with large eyes when she smiled up at him. Because how could she not smile? How could she deny the fast beat of her heart, or the golden blush on her cheeks, when it was all so plain for her to see?

She couldn't, and that was what made it all so awful, for her to end up in his arms, shivering from the cold that only she felt, her blood drying on her golden dress, the shine of tears in his eyes as he looked down at her, hopelessly lost. She hated to end it like that, to look upon him as he mourned her, and her last breath was spent trying to console him.

For that was love, wasn't it?

To sacrifice all you had to save all you believed in?

To give up your very soul for those you cared for?

To hold steady to those long formed feelings of love and happiness and hope even when the very center of you cried out in protest, her brother staring over at her with the most betrayed look upon his face.

Betrayed, because he loved her, and she loved him. And she loved Abraham, more so than anyone else, and she loved the world and life and all it could offer.

Nuala loved and so it was, fading to oblivion within the comforting warmth of Abraham's embrace, the image of his face swimming into complete darkness.

**Please R&R! ;)**


	4. John

John had never really loved anyone, to be honest.

There was his mother and father, and his little sister, and that one girl a few summers ago, but love hadn't truly ever touched his life, not like it had touched Red and Liz-even Abe, apparently. And there wasn't much love in Antarctica, anyway.

But what _was_ love? Well, that was a whole different story.

Being an agent of the B.P.R.D hadn't left too much room for soft spots, but John Myers thought that a soft spot was what you needed to get the job done, to discern from good and evil, right and wrong. To fire at some monstrous creature because it was monstrous, or to fire at it because it was attacking you-that was heart, kindness, a soft spot.

That soft spot made John want to comfort Liz, made him want to befriend this girl who seemed so lost within herself, and that same soft spot made him let her go. She'd needed love, and had found it with Red, and for all of Red's bad days, John knew that he was a good person, inside and out. And love wasn't judgmental, after all. Love didn't look at you and care about what it saw, it didn't get to know you and turn away because of it. Love was powerful, and kind, and caring, and it didn't judge a book by its cover. Love was strong, even unbreakable, that John knew from the many couples he had seen walking down the street.

And he knew that love could transcend anything, be it time or death or anything else the world could throw at it, because if it could touch Liz and make her smile, and touch Red and make him sacrifice everything, and touch Abe and make him think in a whole different way, then love was worth it all.

And wasn't that the most important thing? For love to be worth any sacrifice, any cost, any hardship?

Myers, though shivering a bit in the cold, smiled, despite his situation, because two penguins were huddled together, backs against the wind, their beaks touching and making a small heart shape. He smiled at them, laughter bubbling up in his throat, because_ that_, be it with penguins or people, was what love_ truly_ was.

**Please R&R! ;)**


	5. Nuada

In all of Nuada's long life, he had only ever loved two people.

He had loved his father, until he put a sword through his chest, and he had loved his sister, until she killed him. And both of those ends seem quite awful, really, just too awful.

Balor had always been stubbornly rooted to his beliefs, just like Nuala, and Nuada knows that he was, too.

But Nuala and Balor stayed strong to the belief that humans were naturally greedy, and that they couldn't help it, and that instead of receiving hatred and cruelty, they should receive pity. Insanity. Humans were born with holes in their hearts that would never be filled, never be satisfied, no matter how many trees they took from the earth or how many lives they ruined. Mankind would do anything to meet their ends, and Nuada only tried to protect his people and everything they cherished.

And despite all of that, Nuala had betrayed him.

She had taken his love and his devotion and his determination and thrown it in his face, and yet he still loved her.

He would always love her, she who owned his heart, who was the other half of his soul, because Nuada understood love- at least in part.

He understood sacrifice- why else would he have thrown himself into exile?

He understood the motivation and the urge to protect and preserve- why else would he have awakened The Golden Army?

He understood comfort-the faint memories of hugging his sister close coming to his mind.

He understood all of that, and yet knew nothing. He didn't know the love his father had felt for his mother, or even the love his sister claimed to feel for that _Abraham_, the one who chose to live among the very humans that despised him.

He would never understand, Nuala had told him. He would never understand what it was like to feel so deeply for another person that it consumed you, but he did. He loved Nuala with all he had, and he would die for her in a heartbeat-or he would have, somewhere in their past.

But now? He couldn't find that within himself, reaching in and coming back with pure darkness, and the thought might have scared anyone else, but not Nuada.

It only made him work harder-kill more, protect more, _do more._

His pride blinded him, blinded him so completely, that he didn't realize the fact until it was too late, until he felt Nuala's betrayal stabbing through his chest, his blood-_their_ _blood_-seeping from between his fingers as he clutched at the wound there.

Love, in all of its questionable grace, had never shown itself to his eyes until that very moment.

Because love was betrayal, the kind that simmered in your blood and tore you to pieces, and it was sadness and grief anger, the kind that hardened over time and left you empty.

Love was watching Nuala fall, her golden skirts whooshing against the slick ground, and feeling utterly and absolutely helpless to run to her.

**Please R&R! Feedback is always appreciated! ;)**


End file.
